“Give another cheer for Ardent Strangers, everybody!” Dan shouts.
Aaron and I wave to the audience and the cameras, and our segment is over. I extricate myself from Aaron as we cut to an ad-break, happy to be leaving the stage and joining the other contestants in the Green Room.
I love ad-breaks. Even better when that ad-break is extra-long and purposely devised for the judges to select the first two finalists. I have no doubt that Aaron and I will be left at the mercy of the public’s vote.
Backstage, I’m trying to distance myself from Aaron, but he never seems to notice, or he doesn’t care. He pulls me into another hug, then holds me at arm’s length. Aaron smiles with pride. “We’re going to be a tough act to beat, thanks to you.”
I laugh. If he only knew. “Says he who sent the audience into hysterics at the end.”
“I don’t think that was all me.” He scratches his head. “But if you say so.”
“Oh, I do. The second you put down your guitar and leapt from the piano the real applause began, all for you and that white shirt of yours.”
“My shirt?”
The guy might be a super-sleuth agent, but on some things he’s simply clueless. “Never mind.”
We walk back onto the stage with the other contestants, Emma shifting us into positions. The three judges are huddled around the table, possibly arguing. Skylar looks particularly angry. It gives me a little bit of hope.
“I want one of those spots,” Aaron mutters in my ear.
“Same,” I whisper back as we return to air.
Five minutes later, the show is over and we are bouncing up and down backstage with the guys from Fatal Attack, Rayne, and Friday. We have a free pass to the finals. I can’t believe it! I’m still buzzing as my phone vibrates and I receive a text from Nate: ‘Congratulations! But I think you left something behind on the stage…’
Did I?
When I return to the stage the props have been cleared. Tables are ushered on by crew and the odd contestant—namely Rayne and Jay, and some of Nathaniel’s security agents. Then I spy the thing I’d left behind. I smile.
Nathaniel winks at me as he helps set a third table in place. He freezes when several fans rush across to him. He’s not even in the show, but somehow the lure of Mr. Blake is too hard to deny.
I laugh. I’d almost forgotten that there had been a competition to meet the contestants. Seven winners are scattering amongst us. Nathaniel waves at the women and they smile back at him much like the two teenage girls bounding toward me.
The younger winner throws herself around my body. “Eve!”
“Hi,” I say, shaking her hand. I check out her name tag. Macie. Macie? As in trip into Aaron’s crotch Macie? No, it couldn’t be…
“I’m Macie and this is Abby,” she says rapidly. “We wrote you a letter, remember?”
“I do! Thank you.” I laugh.
Nathaniel appears beside me, grumbling.
“Oh my god, Nathaniel! Nathaniel!” Macie’s hands go into prayer position in front of her mouth, she is that in awe.
I am smiling a cheek-cramping amount as Nathaniel steps back, ridged. He’s trying to smile, but deep down he is freaking out. He shifts closer, latching onto my elbow.
“Angel,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to steer them over to Rayne’s side of the room. No, make that Aaron’s.”
My mouth drops a fraction. Underhanded and sneaky. So very Nathaniel.
I smile at the girls. “Nathaniel, how ‘bout an autograph, a quick photo?”
He tenses, then remembers to smile. “Sure.”
Many autographs later, I decide to save Nathaniel. He doesn’t look himself. I’m actually beginning to worry.
“Let’s go,” I say to the girls. “I’ll introduce you to Aaron. You’ll love him.”
A sigh behind me.
I glance back quickly, poking my tongue at Nathaniel, earning a lackluster smile in return. Something is definitely not right.
“Aaron!” Macie says, as I lead her towards my bandmate. As the girl lunges toward him, Aaron’s reaction to Macie is a lot like Nathaniel’s—pure utter fear. “Oh my god, Aaron! Aaron!”
Aaron grunts, and sends me a ‘I’ll pay you back for this later’ look. Minutes later, I return from my tour of the room. I am fan-less and exhausted, much how Nathaniel looks.
“I thought you liked being famous?” I ask, yawning.
“Normally, I can tolerate it. But Macey broke me.”
I can’t help laughing.
Nathaniel shakes his head. “Speaking of being in the spotlight, that was without doubt your best performance.” He leans closer, his eyes sparkling. “If I might be so bold to say, I’m especially proud of my fiancé.”
Fiancé. “I am getting rather attached to that name.”
“Glad to hear.”
I gravitate towards him, and we both pull back from an almost kiss. His hands link with mine, his thumb skimming over the ring. His jaw clenches ever-so-slightly, and I sense he’s just as displeased that I must swap the ring from its rightful place. We stand there for a minute, lost in our own thoughts.
He glances across to me, his voice quiet, “There’s something I’ve always been meaning to ask you. It’s nothing really, but…”
Oh no. This could be bad. “What is it?”
“Sometimes when you speak I swear there’s a faint Irish lilt to your voice. And the way you play the fiddle, that’s when you’re truly free, like you’re playing from memories. Am I right?”
“How…?” I am stunned. No one has ever picked that up before. No one has ever listened closely enough to my accent. But to put all of those things together… I feel as free as those moments when the violin is soaring beneath my fingers, that someone could understand me this way.
In the past few years I’d stopped myself from thinking of my life before we’d come to Australia. I’d left my only other relative in Ireland, my mother’s mother. I’d loved her as much as my own parents. When she was younger, she’d looked like my mother—the same silky black hair, pale skin, and slight bones, both singers and pianists like me.
“How old were you when you moved here?” Nathaniel asks.
“Six. My father wanted to return to Melbourne. He had family—”
A loud crack rents the air.
Something slams into my lower ribs and shoots inside. My breath catches in my chest, trying to rise up.
Help. I have no breath.
I open my mouth, trying to pull in more air as Nathaniel grabs me by the waist, pulling me to him. I clutch under my right breast, but the burning can’t be stopped, nor can the blood streaming through my fingers.
I have no breath.
In one movement, Nathaniel swings me against his chest and swivels us. I grip his jacket, wishing I had breath to scream, Run, Nathaniel! Run! But I’m as flimsy as a doll as he pulls me back and looks me over. His gaze widens, and he wastes no time in snatching up the hem of my dress and scrunching it against the pain.
Viv yells in the background.
Screams high and low. Footsteps running.
Aaron draws a pistol from his jacket and darts away.
My legs give way and I’m scooped up into Nathaniel’s arms. Viv and Hamada brace me on either side.
Blackness swamps me.
A gunshot.
My eyes blink open and I suck in air, wanting more.
The darkness returns.
“Eve!” Nathaniel calls.
I look up at the horror in his eyes, then I can only hear it.
“Eve. Eve! Wake up!” he calls. “Open your eyes!” Then he is running.
A gunshot. Another gunshot.
Nathaniel’s grip tightens and he tucks my head in front of his, hunching his body around mine as he darts towards the far-off curtains.
No! He’s not allowed to shield me. I’m already gone.
Fallen Angel
Nathaniel:
It all happens in secon
ds:
Screams erupt as a bullet cracks the air. I flinch and sway as Eve stumbles back, her long sharp gasp replacing the sound of the bullet. I spin her by the waist, putting myself between her and the curtain fluttering behind me. Her mouth opens, attempting to draw breaths that barely come. I’m all but ready to sprint us to the safe room when she clings to me, as if begging me to let her breathe. I don’t want to look down, but there it is—a gunshot below her right breast, blood spilling down her white dress. Scooping her up into my arms, I jam the hem of her dress against the wound.
Eve has been shot.
Eve has been shot.
Fuck.
The safe room…
I should be running, but her face is deathly pale. Her eyes blink drowsily, giving me torturous glimpses of those amazing blue irises that can no longer focus, that are streaming with tears. Every gasp of breath grows weaker, but her is chest heaving. “Eve. Eve! Wake up! Open your eyes!” Don’t you bloody well die on me. I couldn’t take it.
As Viv and Hamada latch onto us, I peer back. The studio’s security officers are like pillars standing at the corners of the room, but Az and Hamada are racing towards the right curtain, drawing Glock 17’s concealed beneath their shirts. The curtain breezes sharply. A gunshot explodes. Az staggers like he’s taken a hit to the shoulder. A second later he takes off behind that same curtain with Hamada flanking him, gun raised.
“Everybody down. Now!” Viv shouts to the few remaining contestants who are too shocked to move. But we are out of there, running between contestants and crew huddled on the floor. As we dart behind the curtain on our left and take the flight of steps, Viv hisses, “Where is Hunt?”
Good question.
“He said he was going to the bathroom,” Brewster puffs, speeding us into a long corridor.
A gunshot from the stage. And another.
Aaron’s double tap—army grade.
Eve’s was a single—one bullet to the chest. Cops use a single.
Hunt?
No.
No. Hunt’s been with me for years. I shake my head as I run on, letting Viv steer me to the left and down another corridor. Three doors down and the two security men guarding our safe room look a little shaken to see us. Eve flails in my arms, and I am ready to kick the damned door down myself! What if there was a hitman running down the hall firing at us this very moment? We’d be dead before we made it inside. If they were my men I’d fire their asses on the spot, but as soon as the door opens we rush inside.
Dropping to my knees, my arms shake slightly as I lay Evangeline upon the carpet.
Brewster leans over to listen to her wound, then swears to himself. “It’s whistling. Perforation of the lung.”
I tune out Brewster’s diagnosis. “Eve,” I whisper, shaking her shoulder.
No response.
No. No. Eve is going to live. She has to.
“Nate?” she murmurs—it is barely a sound. “Nathaniel.”
“Move, Nate!” Brewster snaps, swiping me out of the way. Never before have I felt so useless as when I sit back on my heels, watching as Brewster calmly tells her to take a deep breath in. Surprisingly, Eve does as he instructs, her eyes fluttering open and closed as she listens.
“Nate, call an ambulance,” Viv orders, grabbing the first aid box and running across to Eve, fixing an oxygen mask to Eve’s mouth in seconds.
Hell. I should have been dialing the second I entered the room. Controlling shit is what I do. But this is Eve…
I pull out my phone and begin to dial ‘911’, forgetting where I am.
“Tell them we have a pneumothorax,” Viv adds as I start the process over, dialing ‘000’. A man answers, asking me if it’s ambulance, fire, or police. The questions keep on coming, while all I want to do is tell him to ‘Hurry the hell up!’ I am almost as breathless as Eve, while the man on the phone reassures me the ambulance is only minutes away.
It’s hard enough watching Brewster pull Eve’s bra down to her waist. I’m ready to cover her with my jacket, because no other man should see her like this. But Brewster is working frantically, slipping on gloves and holding Eve’s hand onto the wound, his impatience clear as he waits for Viv to cut a surgical plastic bag on two sides, doubling its length. The second she’s finished, he snatches the bag. More bandages to wipe at the blood and he lays the bag flat over the gunshot site, Viv taping down three sides, leaving one side free. Eve’s chest falls then rises sharply as the bag seals against her chest, then flutters open on the free side as the first proper breath comes from her lips.
“Deep breath in, Eve,” I say, manufacturing my calmest voice possible. That breath costs her, but she’s never one to quit, and she inhales deeply once again.
I shake my head, staring down at her. Eve shouldn’t have blood leaking out of a bullet-hole every time I instruct her to inhale, her eyes searching for me as she follows my commands. Hard to believe that this is the girl who’d sat beside me for hours in my hospital room, answering my questions after I’d roused her from sleep. Her honesty had hit me hard, and I knew right then, I was destined to love her. The fact that she’d confessed her feelings for me a second earlier made it a whole lot easier.
Eve convulses in my grasp. Waiting out the tremor is a torture in itself, but it finally subsides. She glances up at me and mumbles, but I never hear the words. It’s already eating away at me, that I’ve missed anything she’s said. Her eyes open slightly, and the mask fills with fog as she smiles. It’s the weakest but sweetest smile I’ve ever seen from her, and I am close to losing it.
“Don’t you quit on me,” I tell her.
My teeth grind together hard, and it does nothing to diminish the way my ring on her finger sparkles back at me, taunting me. My ring. I should slip it from her finger and melt the damn thing. My love for her has caused her nothing but hurt since the night we met.
Brewster swears, relaying info from his earpiece. “Aaron just took out Hunt!”
“I can’t believe it was Hunt,” breathes Viv.
Amazingly, I can.
What did Laura offer you, Hunt?
I stroke Eve’s forehead, and whisper, “I’m so sorry. She warned me, angel. But I couldn’t stay away. And here you are, just as she said.”
Perhaps I should have shown Evangeline the letter she’d received today, but the last thing I wanted to do was frighten her. She’s so determined to finish this competition, and how could I tell her no? The last thing she needs is another guy controlling every aspect of her life—my father took that same approach with my mother, with me. I cannot be that man. I cannot be him.
Damn. I did control her. I withheld the letter. I took away her right to choose. She would never have done the competition if she’d known, and I knew how much it meant to her. No, Eve would have done the noble thing to protect me. She would have vanished into her old life, leaving me behind. If only I’d been so honorable. (But I was too weak to let her go.)
Laura’s letter flashes in my mind, every line and curve of red ink:
I thought I warned you, Miss Lockhart. Leave Nathaniel alone! If that proves too difficult a task, I will find you, and it will be your blood that spills over the next page, the one I send to Nathaniel, when I tell him that you’re gone.
I take Evangeline’s hand, memorizing the gentle way her fingers shift over my skin. What if this is the last time she ever touches me again? (The last time she does anything?)
I kiss her temple. She really does look like an angel; dark soft waves splayed over the floor, red lips and pale skin. I kiss her lips, then whisper, “I love you, Eve.”
An unexpected visitor
Evangeline:
“Miss Lockhart,” a woman murmurs.
I know that voice… Where?
I roll my head back and forth on the pillow, returning to the dream of Nathaniel on bended knee, the sun rising around us; then we are in his bed, my fingers tangling in his hair as he gives me all of him. But now this woman’s voice has spoken the d
ream feels wrong. I want to open my eyes—they’re too heavy, the air too dry. A machine beeps quietly, its rhythm accelerating slowly. I breathe in the smell of antiseptic. My tongue tastes slightly metallic—like blood or chemicals. I wriggle my fingers, hitting stiff bedsheets.
I laugh. Aaron must have tucked my sheets too tight.
The dream returns and Nathaniel is whispering things to me as I’m being wheeled through sparse corridors. He smiles for me, but his eyes are bloodshot, fearful. I want to tell him it’s okay, that the world isn’t crumbling beneath us, that I still have his wings.
Shit. I’ve been shot.
“Miss Lockhart!” the woman snaps in her New York accent.
I blink and see a blurry outline of someone leaning over me. A name badge is clipped to her uniform, but my vision is too unfocused to read it. I blink again and see that it’s a nurse in blue surgical scrubs. Her eyes are bordered by thick spectacles. I’ve seen this face before, but where? The brown hair seems to clash with my memory. It’s clipped at the side and styled artfully across her forehead. She leans closer, her smile predatorial. Laura is in my room!
“I thought I warned you to stay away from Nathaniel,” she says. “You got me fired. He fired me. Nathaniel! After all I’ve done for him! After all of the years I’ve loved him. All it took was a few minutes on a damn bridge and he falls in love with you!” she whispers against my cheek. “If I can’t have him, nor can you. It’s only fair.”
“What?” I croak out.
“Take off his ring.”
Tears falling, I stare up her. “No. I can’t.”
Her eyes pin me to the bed. “Take it off. Now.”
I lift my left hand. It’s trembling and stiff where the IV is taped into my wrist. Nathaniel’s ring glimmers in the night light, the angel wings shining brightest of all. I can’t give this up. It’s what bonds me to him.
“Why do you think you’re still alive?” she whispers. “Because when Agent Hunt pulled the trigger he let you live.”
“Nathaniel’s agent shot me?” This makes no sense.
Ardent Strangers Page 29
